Even South Africa
by Slayergirl
Summary: Nikki's thoughts on waking up. H/N, of course. Rating for one word Nikki thinks, and minor suggestiveness. Set post-season 14.


**A/N: I have no idea where this came from. It just wanted to be written.**

**Even South Africa**

You wake up warmer than you usually do – you like your bedroom fairly cool, reminding you of the air-conditioned haven of your room in that wonderful house in South Africa, before your father left, before your mother died, before you had to leave your beloved home and come to England. But you're positively warm, this morning, and it puzzles you that there's an arm draped across your waist. Not that it's such a surprise to be in bed with a man – you've had a fair few that have come and gone in the past. But the funny thing is, you know you're currently single, and you don't remember how you got to be in bed with someone. And you're not sure, therefore, who it is, which is worrying in itself, because you're not that much of a tart, whatever Harry says to tease you.

You start guiltily; you've just spent the night in the arms of another man, and you're already thinking about Harry, mere moments after waking up. Okay, so you always do, but it's really not polite. It's not Mystery Man's fault he's not Harry.

You open your eyes a crack, and wince, partly in pain (how much did you drink last night, anyway?), and partly because it's not your room. It's no longer a surprise you're too warm, but you're startled, because if you're taking a guy home to bed, it's always your bed. Always. End of story. You've never gone back to a man's place, however drunk you've got. So either you really trusted Mystery Man, or he tricked you, or you were… really, really drunk.

But you don't feel any pain anywhere other than your head, and you're still (you realise) partially-clothed. So your initial assumptions were clearly completely wrong, and you're more confused than ever. You went home with Mystery Man, and spent the night in his bed, in his arms, and nothing happened.

Well, that's new. Clearly Mystery Man is a nice guy. Cool. You've landed yourself in bed with a nice guy. Shame he's not…

Bugger, he's awake – he's stretching. "Oh, God, my head…" he moans. You try to stifle a giggle; clearly you'd _both _had too much to drink last night. "Morning, sunshine," he continues with a yawn. "Sleep well?"

You've recognised the voice, and give a sigh of relief – it's answered a few questions, at least. You turn over, wincing again at the pain in your head. "Think so. How did we get into bed?"

Harry looks puzzled. "You don't remember?"

"No. I thought you might."

"Nope. Haven't a clue. I'm assuming we didn't…"

"I'm still in my underwear, you're in a t-shirt and boxers. I'm guessing not."

"Well, that's a relief." At your look of fury, he back-pedals immediately, and you can't help but see the funny side of it. "I meant… I wouldn't… I'd hate you to think I'd take advantage of you," he stutters.

You can't help thinking that's actually rather sweet. Your look of fury softens considerably. Then he says something that was lurking at the back of your mind, too, and which makes everything go slightly topsy-turvy.

"Anyway, I'd want to remember it."

You stare at him, fingers clenching the thick duvet as if it was a child's comfort blanket. You need something to keep you grounded. You also remember that you need to breathe. "Yeah," you manage to gasp out, and swallow as you realise what you – both of you – have just said.

Finally, after years of dancing round the issue, you've told each other what you really want. It seems weirdly fitting that it happens when you're already half-naked and hungover in bed together.

Harry reaches out, the backs of his fingers tracing a path across your cheek to tuck a stray curl behind your ear. It's such a tender, intimate gesture that you feel tears well in your eyes, and melt against him a little as he presses soft, warm lips to yours. He pulls back, but it's only to snuggle you closer into his embrace, and suddenly you don't care that it was too warm earlier, because now, it seems just right.

You don't say anything, and you're glad that he doesn't, either – neither of you wanting to break this perfect moment. There are enough things being said this morning without the need of words, and your hearts and minds and bodies seem to be doing pretty well without them. You're wrapped up in each other and in silence, and it's so wonderful that it's almost too much to bear, so finally, you break the silence. "Why were we drinking, anyway?"

Harry blinks and frowns. "Leo's MBE, I think, wasn't it?"

"Oh, yeah." You settle back down. "I still don't know how I ended up here. I never go home with men."

"Can't help you there, I don't remember," comes a contented-sounding reply. "I hope you're not going to make a habit of it, now you've done it once. Going home with men that it. Unless it's me."

"Oh, I'm allowed to go home with you, am I?" You're teasing a little, but you want to make sure he's really saying what you think he's saying.

He understands. "Yep. But only me." He looks at you. "That okay?" he asks softly.

You nod, a lump in your throat. "So long as you don't bring home any more of your adoring twenty-somethings."

He nods. "I can live with that."

And there it is. Hungover and half-naked, wrapped up in each other's arms, you've finally got to the place you've wanted to be for years. You wrap your arms around Harry's waist and snuggle closer to him with a contented sigh, relishing the warmth of him next to you. You wouldn't change it for any other place in the world. Even South Africa.


End file.
